


deadline gold

by spidye



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Eggsy Unwin, Infinity Stone Soul World (Marvel), M/M, Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Peter Parker Needs a Hug, The Drift (Pacific Rim), parkswin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidye/pseuds/spidye
Summary: Jaegers are just as dangerous to their pilots as they are to kaiju. When Peter nearly gets Eggsy killed, he isn't sure how to cope with it.





	deadline gold

**Author's Note:**

> not my best writing but it bothered me that i had this as a wip and never finished it so here

In the Shatterdome’s hangar bay, _Deadline Gold_ stands tall, her gold-cored heart churning slowly in the center of her massive body. Cables run in bundles from the ceiling to the jaeger’s various power joints, keeping her awake. The dozens of workers scouring her surface look no bigger than ants, making it easy to see just how _massive_ she is. _Three hundred and one feet,_ Peter recalls. One of the biggest in the fleet. And one of the best, too. He and Eggsy had been proud as hell of making the top ten rank last year, had celebrated it with copious amounts of alcohol, which they regretted when they were woken up with a kaiju deployment alarm at five AM. Hangover or not, they still took the three-armed creature down with minimal damage.

From where he’s leaning on the rail, Peter admires the jaeger’s worn coloring and decorations. Despite its massive size, _Deadline Gold_ is sleeker than most other Mark V jaegers, with broad, blue-plated shoulders and more than ample protective armoring around the core. Tony had insisted on upping core protection after the last Mark IV had her heart ripped out and rendered both her pilots in a vegetative state of brain damage.

Of course, that’s Tony. An eye for every emergency, insisting on upgrading the jaegers despite the monetary costs. It's not like the jaeger program isn’t raking in as much money as it spends; it's the earth’s best defense. They have the funds. But more stringent members of the council — Pierce — want to focus investments on helicarriers.

“Which do nothing,” Tony had told him a few hours ago. The older man, with his own miniaturized reactor glowing from under his shirt, had been hunched over a new neural helmet, prying at its wiring while speaking. “We already have a kaiju event monitor, and it costs twice as much to keep a helicarrier in the air for a day as it does to deploy _three_ jaegers.” Tony had snorted disdainfully.

“And the guns won’t work,” Peter had offered, tucking one foot behind his ankle hesitantly.

“The guns don’t work.” Tony had lifted a hand in confirmation and glanced up at Peter. The lab’s lights reflected off his welding goggles, but it was easy to imagine Tony’s eyes under the goggles — one scarred over, the other wide and brown. “You’re right. Either gonna shoot at Godzilla with a pellet gun or gonna lay waste to the entire pacific seaboard with a nuke or some shit. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what Pierce is aiming for.”

He had shaken his head, exhaling hard, and pulled the goggles down around his neck to fix Peter with a serious look. “Anyway, kid, you look better today. How are you feeling?”

_How am I feeling?_

The question brings Peter back into the present, where he’s leaning on the rail staring at his jaeger, nursing a beer that’s gone a little warm by now. He makes a face and sets it down. Despite telling Tony that he was fine, Peter decides he’s feeling ‘not too great.’ Maybe _guilty_ is a better word. He had just gone to say goodbye to Tony, and now he's saying goodbye to his jaeger.

This ledge is isolated from the rest of the deck; a little precipice jutting out over the Shatterdome’s bay, overlooking the dozen levels beneath it and putting the viewer at reactor core height. Beneath, on the concrete floor below, people are jogging here and there. Some push carts full of tools and metal plating. Others are operating lifts to bring in the bigger bits and pieces needed for _Deadline Gold_ ’s repairs.

Two figures in black armor are jogging to the far end of the hangar, with helmets tucked under their arms; Peter follows their trajectory with his eyes, though he already knows which jaeger they’re going to. _Black Panther_. Udaku and Barnes are legends to the civilian jaeger fanbase, despite their insistence on minimal media exposure. Their jaeger, the only Mark VII to exist, is the fastest, strongest, and most durable. Kaiju teeth snap off when they try to bite into vibranium. It’s almost undetectable by kaiju and requires half the usual amount of carriers to get it to its location, making it the most efficient to deploy. Probably why they have eleven kills; a fleet record.

Every jaeger pilot wants their own Mark VII or drift advice from Barnes. A signature from King T’Challa once sold for 800k on eBay. The best in the fleet, practically celebrities, and they’re having to pick up the slack that _Deadline Gold_ should be pulling. This is their third deployment this week.

Peter tilts his head up to look at her helmet. The shattered glass of its eyepiece is being removed; there’s a new windshield hanging nearby, ready for installation. They’re restoring the damaged headpiece right now; tearing off the torn panels and replacing them with vibranium plates. Peter’s eyes drift slowly over the warped metal. He winces, remembering the noise it had made when it had torn. Eggsy’s scream had been louder.

The cerebrum of the jaeger holds both pilots, suspended with pedals and metal arms that track their movements and reflect them to the jaeger itself. Behind the eyepiece, two people control their massive piece of equipment in unison, as if a suit of armor. Jaeger pilots always joke that the cerebrum is the messiest place to die; it always looks thrown together, like it was designed to kill you more than keep you alive. Beneath your feet would be massive, churning gears; if your suspension gear broke you’d fall and be mangled by them. Hasn’t happened yet, but it’s a mess-hall joke. Nobody wants to be the first one to die by meatgrinder.

Lots of pilots have pre-deployment jitters, but Eggsy and Peter had always relished in the feeling. Sure, it’s scary a few minutes before, but as soon as you’re in the drift, your anxiety turns to adrenaline.

 _Which turns to overconfidence,_ Peter thinks, setting his jaw. _Which gets people hurt._

His eyes wander over _Deadline Gold_ ’s left arm. That whole unit is going to have to be replaced. At the end of the jaeger’s arm, the plasma cannon is half-destroyed and hanging limp. The whole left of the jaeger had been mauled, with claw- and tooth-marks raking it from the jaeger’s chest down to the cannon at the end of its limb. Peter exhales shakily, wanting to avert his eyes, but forcing himself to keep looking at it. Eggsy had fought that kaiju off all on his own, and the jaeger was good enough representation of how close he had been to losing the fight. It was Eggsy’s cries of pain that had brought Peter back to consciousness.

 _Look at what you put him through,_ he thinks.

That was the problem with the pilot armor. It didn’t have to be all that sophisticated. Just protective enough to shield the pilot from flak and just tight enough to keep the neurosensors against the pilot’s skin. To feel what they were doing, of course. To mimic their movements and translate it; human arm to jaeger arm, fingers curling into fists, the subtle twist of the wrist to activate the plasma cannon. That’s what made jaegers so good. Giant suits of armor with all the agility of a human being, a dozen commands accessible from just the pilot’s mind and movements. All thanks to the neurosensors.

But if damaged, those neurosensors tear into your skin. They burn and they cut and they rip you apart if you’re not careful. All pilots are warned against this. If your jaeger is injured, disconnect neural links to the affected side immediately or risk serious physical injury. Your copilot will help bear the neural strain.

Peter mutters, “If he’s conscious.”

He doesn’t remember how he got here. He only showed up a few years ago, dazed and half beaten to death on the Shatterdome’s front entrance ramp. Fury had nearly driven him over on accident, barely spotting the boy’s limp frame crumpled in the road in enough time to skid to a stop. Tony had nursed him back to health, with the help of Ginger, but when Peter came around, he knew only his name and had no idea how he got there. They even had done a neural recall; it came back blank, aside from three to four traumatic events that seems unconnected. Peter was unfamiliar with almost everything they presented him with, and though they chalked it up to heavy amnesia, Peter briefly wondered if he belonged in this universe at all.

But Fury offered to let him train for the jaeger program, so Peter stayed. They had done a soft memory wipe to clean out some of the more traumatic and confusing things and prepare him for the drift. It eased things, yes, but there were still memories that sucked Peter in like a riptide, held him under and made him choke on air when he came back up for breath. Tony assured him that it would stop, eventually, especially with a partner. That partner turned out to be a boy his age, who was his first and only friend, and smoothed his drift almost completely. Fury agreed to sign him despite the drift problem. It seemed negligible. Peter had graduated from the program, picked Eggsy as his partner, gotten assigned to jaeger that they had, together, named _Deadline Gold._

Eggsy knew Peter had a dangerous drift, but both of them trusted that when they were with each other, his problems in the drift were a non-issue. And for the most part, they were. Six kills says so. All of Peter’s drift problems happened in simulations, and the boys worked through them until they were no longer a threat. In practice, maybe a little rough, yes, but on the battlefield, they were flawless.  


This battle had gone well, up until this point. _Deadline Gold_ is smaller than the category 3 kaiju, but better armed and faster. Off the coast of an Alaskan seaport, waist-deep in the ocean, the jaeger had waited for the event to cumulate; when the kaiju had broken from the waves with a roar, they had been ready and waiting to make the first strike.

Helicopters circle them, monitoring the flight and keeping cameras on it for the Shatterdome’s viewing. It’s a frenzy, but nothing new: metal meeting bone and flesh again and again until the kaiju bleeds blue from more than one place, the boys whooping and hollering to each other with each successful strike. _Deadline_ is wearing the kaiju down, just waiting to finish it off. Two shots from the plasma cannon, and the kaiju submerges in the water, making a low, horrible moan of pain.

Inside the cockpit, Peter and Eggsy move together, churning their legs to propel the jaeger through the water. They’re circling the kaiju, staring down in the water.

“No readings,” Peter says warily. “Don’t like that.”

“Maybe it ran home,” Eggsy jokes. “You never know—”

The monitor beeps a warning, and Peter’s expression goes slack for a split second before the kaiju breaks from the ocean, already reared back to strike. Its left arm is swinging, Peter shouts for them to step back but it’s too late—

Claws meet metal with a sickening sound. _Deadline Gold_ reels, staggering, and slips, goes under the water. Inside the cerebrum, the boys are stuck to their suspension gear, but the movement knocks the wind out of both of them and the gear will certainly leave bruises, if not cuts. There’s a muffled cry of pain as Peter’s head smacks into the metal of his suspension arm. His helmet cracks.

The kaiju tries to go after _Deadline_ while she’s under, but is met with the plasma cannon. Eggsy can only get two shots off before the clip is empty and has to go for a reload. Still, it buys them enough time to regroup, the kaiju circling and nursing its wound with a whine.

“Up!” Eggsy shouts, “we have to get out of the water!”

Peter manages to assist him in the movement, struggling to right the jaeger, but he doesn’t speak. His feet and arms shove at the jaeger’s suspension gear, grunting with the effort of helping Eggsy get _Deadline_ on her feet. Once above the water, the jaeger imitates Eggsy’s little shake of his head, as if to clear the fog.

“Let’s get this son of a bitch,” Eggsy says.

But all Peter can manage is a choked, “Eggsy,” and when Eggsy glances to his right, Peter is staring straight ahead, blood streaming over his face, face contorted in pain and eyes glazed with fear.

Not at the kaiju.

Peter’s oxygen monitor is beeping frantically and his mouth is slightly agape, trying to take in air. Eggsy’s eyes widen a little as he realizes that Peter’s drift is slipping.

“Don’t,” he shouts immediately, “Peter, don’t follow it— Stay with me!” It’s barely audible over the clamor of the alarms. The kaiju is approaching, teeth bared and dripping blue blood into the tossing waves. Eggsy lifts a hand to the control panel above, voice shaking. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, we have neural damage—”

The sound of claws on metal. The kaiju in front of them takes up the whole windscreen, all teeth and venom with its front two limbs gripping _Deadline Gold_ by her shoulders, trying to shove her under the waves again. The boys move their left foot back in unison to brace themselves against the kaiju. Peter’s eyes are wide and glassy, and though his body responds to Eggsy’s movements, he isn’t assisting the fight. He’s paralyzed.

Eggsy doesn’t dare take his eyes off the windscreen, but he can see Peter’s mind in the drift, the blue presence stagnant and hovering near the edge of the horizon event. In Peter’s mind, a memory flickers before him — one he hasn’t seen before, one that grabs him by the throat and makes his body feel cold.

“Mayday!” Eggsy shouts into the comm, “I repeat, _mayday,_ we need backup!”

Peter knows this feeling. He hasn’t had _it_ in months, has nearly forgotten how to cope with it. He has no physical choice but to stay as still as he can. Any movement and he knows he’ll be sucked into the memory. He barely manages to say Eggsy’s name as a warning, a plea for help—

“Peter,” Eggsy says. His voice pitches up with urgency. “Peter, don’t chase the rabbit! I need you here with me!”

 _Trying_ , Peter thinks. Eggsy hears it. The kaiju lunges forward, unhinging its jaw in an attempt to bite at _Deadline_ ’s head, and the boys lift their right arm together to block it. Eggsy forces them to backpedal again. The suspension arms move Peter along, but Eggsy is doing the work. Its teeth sink into the right arm, and Peter’s neurosensors light up under the armor. His cry of pain is muffled and choked with the lack of oxygen, but it brings him back from the edge of the memory just a little bit, enough for him to hear Eggsy grunting, “Hold on, Pete— plasma cannon’s charging!”

“Use the knife,” Peter manages, curling his right hand into a fist. Eggsy does the same, and _Deadline_ ’s hand forms a fist. From its gauntlet, a massive blade deploys, slicing through the kaiju’s upper jaw and teeth. It reels back with a scream of pain, and as it goes, _Deadline_ ’s arm follows through with the motion, slicing the kaiju down to its neck as it retreats. The jaeger staggers to balance itself, and Peter lets his body sink its weight into the suspension gear, breathing raggedly.

“It’s not through,” Eggsy warns, staring at the kaiju collecting itself to attack again a few hundred feet away. “It’s gonna take the _Panther_ ten minutes to get here. You have to switch to backup oxygen—”

Peter isn’t listening. The neural strain is pressing on the insides of his skull, and he can feel blood welling in his eyes; he nearly vomits. “Slipping,” he says, chokes it. “I can’t, I’m…”

Eggsy’s presence tries to grab at Peter’s in the drift, but it’s too late. It disappears beyond the event horizon.

 

In front of him, _Deadline Gold_ is still standing, held up by a dozen support cables. It's been a week. His arm, the right one, has already been repaired. The workers are working on disassembling Eggsy’s— the left. Peter glances down at his own arm, ghosting his fingers along the neatly carved lines in his forearm from the neurosensors. They’re healing fine. Might not even scar. They hardly hurt anymore, but that’s because he _heals_ in the first place. And that was a light injury. Peter’s stomach turns thinking about how _Deadline_ ’s damage translated to Eggsy’s skin. And that says nothing for the neural damage Eggsy sustained from piloting a jaeger alone. There’s a reason there are always two pilots.

For what? A memory?

A sickening one, too. Peter feels like picking up that beer again just thinking about it. It hadn’t made sense. Peter rubs his hands together idly, as if making sure none of the dust from that memory is still on him. It’s why he’d gone to see Tony. When he’d asked Tony if he made any… _individual_ suits of armor, Tony had given him a weird look. Shown him the suit he’s working on, which, thankfully, looked much older and less sophisticated than the one the Tony in his memory had been wearing.

It wasn’t worth Eggsy getting hurt so badly. He should have been able to resist the rabbithole.

Peter picks up the beer again, but doesn’t drink it. Just twirls it in his fingers and stares at _Deadline Gold._ It’s the last time he’ll see her and _remember_ seeing her. He wanted to enjoy it, but he just feels sick.

“Just get it over with,” he mutters to himself. After a final, lingering look at the jaeger, Peter lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a drink; it’s warm. He makes a face and throws it away, rubbing his hands on his thighs and glancing over his shoulder at _Deadline Gold._ “See you in a minute.”

He starts off towards medbay.

 

Fury said it was a quick and painless procedure. Barnes said it took half an hour and hurt like hell. Peter isn’t sure which to believe, but he’s also not sure it matters at all. No memories, no rabbitholes, no putting Eggsy at risk anymore.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. 

> **_EGGSY,_** 10:35:21  
>  Where are you?
> 
> **_EGGSY,_ ** 10:36:05  
>  You’re not still doing thinking about doing it, are you

Peter huffs and shakes his head, considering just tucking the phone in his pocket. Instead, he types a quick reply.

> **_YOU,_ ** now  
>  Stop trying to talk me out of it. My appt is in 5.
> 
> **_EGGSY,_** now  
>  You arent doing it  
>  Where are you

He pockets his phone after that, turning it to silent, and walks quicker. He’s taking the back route to get to medbay, which means that hopefully, Eggsy won’t be able to find him. He doesn’t want to have this conversation again.

“Wait up!”

The shout comes from behind him, and Peter presses his eyes shut for a moment. _Dammit._ He picks up the pace, shaking his head. “Give it a rest, Eggsy. I’m not changing my mind.”

It doesn’t take much for Eggsy to catch up to him, standing in front of him to bar Peter from continuing to walk. He’s panting for breath, looking a little paler than he normally does. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice thin and pitched up with worry. “Please, we can work it out, alright? You don’t have to forget everything. That’s _not_ the answer.”

Peter shakes his head, says simply, “I’m doing this on my own,” and brushes Eggsy aside to walk down the hall. Eggsy pivots with the movement and scrambles after him, boots clanging on the metal grating as he shadows Peter’s quick pace.

“Peter—”

“I’m not gonna argue with you.”

“Pete, listen.”

“No.”

“Would you just listen to me?”

“Stop following me.”

Peter rounds the corner, not even offering a glance to the boy on his left. His jaw is set, involuntarily bristling as Eggsy occasionally bumps his shoulder, trying to get him to slow down, trying to get him to make eye contact. Eggsy’s voice pitches up, and Peter matches his volume, speaking over him.

“You’re so fucking stubborn, can you just—”

“Really starting to piss me off, Eggsy—”

“—can you let me talk—”

“So I can hear _you_ try to tell me what _I_ need to do?” Peter scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

“Fuck’s sake, Pete, stop—”

“What is it gonna take for you to get the picture, man—”

“If you’ll just _listen_ to me!” Eggsy’s voice is now a shout, but Peter still doesn’t even look at him.

He grabs Peter by the elbow and yanks him back towards him, earning an immediate protest of “get _off!_ ” and a yelp of anger. Peter, much lighter than Eggsy’s grip, staggers and has to take a hard step forward not to fall, and now they’re inches apart and Peter has a handful of Eggsy’s collar and he’s not sure why his other fist is balled up and half-raised as if he’d been planning on hitting Eggsy in his pretty pink lips. Eggsy sees his fist, but stands unflinching, gritting his teeth.

“Let go of me,” Peter commands, voice sharp enough that his words ring down the hall.

“I’m not touching you,” Eggsy says. He had let go of Peter as soon as they had stopped. Peter is the one still strangling the lapel of Eggsy’s flannel. Peter’s flannel. —someone’s flannel, it’s a collective flannel, he can’t remember who owned it and who stole it. Peter’s eyes narrow at Eggsy, who, undeterred, says: “You ain’t doing this alone, ‘cause you ain’t doing it at all.”

“It’s not your _choice_ ,” Peter says louder, harsher. His fingers curl further into Eggsy’s collar, and Eggsy reacts with a wince of pain, but stays exactly where he is, refusing to back off despite the brief discomfort. Peter imagines the cuts in Eggsy’s pale skin beneath the fabric of his shirt, beneath his fist; the way the fresh, still angry-red wounds snake over his chest and loop up and over his left arm, down to his wrist. His wrist, which is carefully and fully covered with the sleeve of someone’s flannel, Peter’s sure now that it’s his. His knuckles are pressing into the wounds over Eggsy’s heart, where they cut deepest, the wounds that Peter himself had re-bandaged this morning. His knuckles should be his fingertips. His threat should be an apology. But Peter sets his teeth and says, sharpening his words, “You’re not gonna stop me. I’m doing it.”

Peter doesn’t say it, but he thinks, _Because of you._

Eggsy says, “Because of me.”

For a moment, Peter is stalled by Eggsy’s intuition. His instincts kick back with a denial, his heart begs for an admission, his stubbornness chooses silence. Eggsy holds his breath, watching Peter’s face as he struggles to keep his neutral expression, brow twitching in, lips pressing together. “Because we have a war to win,” Peter finally answers.

“No,” Eggsy says immediately. “I’m not Stark. You can’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“It ain’t about the war, Pete, you really think I’m buying that—”

“It sure isn’t about _you,_ ” Peter interrupts, and the air between them instantly goes cold. The words sting, and Eggsy’s lip curls on reflex, but rather than recoiling from Peter’s verbal lash, he plants his foot and leans in, pressing his chest into Peter’s knuckles. Peter’s hand gives way to keep from hurting him, and that tells Eggsy more than Peter’s words will.

“No?” he says, cocking his head to the side and lifting his brows. “Care to give me a reason, then? Anything at all, besides ‘I’m doing it, I don’t have to explain anything to you, fuck off’?  Because this is pretty _fucking_ pointless, and pretty stupid. I thought you were smarter.” Eggsy licks his lips, inhales roughly. His voice betrays him, breaking once. “I thought you cared more.”

Peter snaps, “I don’t,” and regrets it instantly. Eggsy’s expression weakens, and then hardens again, but the hurt lingers behind his eyes. Peter immediately tries to excuse it with _he’s cornering me, he isn’t giving me a choice. He isn’t getting the picture._ It feels hollow.

If it were anyone else, Eggsy would have shoved their hand away, but right now, he’s five doors away from losing his partner for good, and Peter’s fist on his collar is the only thing connecting the two of them. Which means that when Peter physically pushes his arm outward, Eggsy has to take a step backwards. His hand snaps up, fingers circling Peter’s wrist in a silent plea, _don’t let me go, don’t push me away, don’t make me lose you._

“Please,” is all Eggsy can manage. “We can—”

“I don’t _need_ you!” Peter cuts him off, lifting into a shout to silence him. The words come out quicker than he can stop them. “I’m not like you. I don’t need someone else to function, alright? You’ve been in my way, and it took me all this time to realize that _this_ is what I needed. Not another person to rely on, not therapy, not a family— not you—”

He chokes. For all the vehemence of his words, they feel like acid. But he said them and they hang in the space between them, heavy and horrible. An apology isn’t going to cut it.

 _Stop lying,_ Peter’s heart begs, _you’re hurting him_.

But his instincts see prey, injured and bleeding out at the end of his arm, eyes wide and lips quivering. As if overtaken by some bloodthirsty thing, Peter feels himself take advantage of the void in their body language, leaning in to finish him off, hears himself say, “You’ve _been_ in my head. You should’ve _known_ that.”

He recoils, draws his teeth away from the throat, sated by his kill. The blood tastes horrible in his mouth. Regret floods him, pooling in his stomach and making him feel like he’s going to be sick. _Why did I say that? Why did I say any of that?_

_Why did I lie?_

Silence. Peter shifts his weight to his back foot, letting his posture lose its aggression. At the end of his arm, Eggsy stands perfectly still, lips parted, words caught painfully in the thick of his throat. Some childlike instinct expects Peter to hit him, and he’s already reeled backwards as if struck; body leaning away from Peter’s grip, eyes wincing and head slightly averted.

The worst part is that he knows Peter is lying.

Peter’s mind, in the drift, is powder blue. Eggsy has been there more times than he can count, so often and for such long periods that often he can’t tell when he _isn’t_ there. He’s drowned himself in that blue. The blue that means we aren’t alone, the blue of it’s you and me, the blue of don’t go. The blue of I’m sorry. The blue of I love you.

At night, when they curl up together in the same bed, Eggsy feels Peter’s heart beating through his ribs and asks, “can I—?”

The answer is invariably a giggle of “yeah,” and Eggsy’s presence, gold and warm, intertwines with Peter’s. They trade colors, bodies and minds pressed close in the constant drift. Eggsy sleeps in blue; Peter, in gold. But before he lets himself sleep, Eggsy turns over the sparse memories in Peter’s mind, trying to make sense of them, trying to soothe them into order. Peter doesn’t mind. Eggsy knows everything about him, every inch of his mind, every memory, every feeling; and Peter knows the same of Eggsy. There are no secrets in the drift. Peter knows that he’s all Eggsy has left. And Eggsy knows, without a doubt, that Peter loves him.

So he knows that those words were a choice, each carefully chosen to cut him deep. To get him to leave.

The hallway is quiet, besides the soft hissing of the pipes lining the walls and the distant clatter from the Shatterdome’s ops bay. There’s no traffic here, though there are tenants in the rooms; most of them are out doing drop simulations or at mess. In the muted atmosphere, Eggsy can feel the space and silence widening between them.

“Don’t forget me,” Eggsy blurts. He’s surprised at how raw and shallow his voice is, rattling in the back of his throat. He swallows, blinking back the haze from his eyes. “Please, don’t forget about me.”

Silence from Peter. Eggsy continues, feeling himself trip over his words. “I know you feel bad. I know you think it’s your fault— it’s not your fault, Peter— but even if it was, forgetting me isn’t right, it’s not— it won’t,” he stammers, voice getting thick, “I don’t _want_ you to forget me.”

Tears sting his eyes as Peter averts his gaze, and Eggsy speaks quicker, trying not to lose Peter’s attention. His words slur under the pressure of the half-repressed sob in his throat. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you don’t need me, but I need you. _I_ need you! I don’t _want_ to lose you. Please,” he’s pleading now, “please, I don’t want you to kill me like this.”

Peter looks up sharply. Eggsy’s eyes, still rimmed with blood from the neural strain, are brimming with tears, and through Peter’s knuckles resting against warm skin, he can feel the way Eggsy’s breath is caught in his chest, threatening to give way to tears. He’s begging for his life, and for a moment, Peter can feel himself falter. Fearing defeat, Eggsy’s hand falls from his wrist, but Peter’s fist stays at his collar. Peter drags his eyes away, forcing his expression to stay neutral. “You’ll be fine,” he strains. “Let me go, Eggsy.”

Eggsy says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, “I’m not touching you.”

But Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t unball his fingers from Eggsy’s shirt. “Let me go,” he says again, weaker. Eggsy’s brows knit.

“I’m not touching you,” Eggsy says, but he leans into Peter’s hand. Peter’s fingers uncurl, flattening against Eggsy’s chest, and Eggsy lifts his own hand, hovering it over Peter’s wrist.

Peter won’t meet his eyes, won’t move his hand. He repeats, choking, “Let me _go_. Please, just...”

“I’m not touching you, Peter.” As he says it, his fingers settle on Peter’s skin again, sliding up towards the crook of his arm. Peter’s elbow buckles in a silent admission, letting Eggsy’s gentle hand move higher. The space between them closes.

“Let me go,” Peter mutters, begging the opposite. Eggsy’s hand travels up to Peter’s shoulder, to the nape of his neck. A sob closes Peter’s throat, and he bows his head under Eggsy’s hand.

Eggsy whispers, “I’m not touching you.”

Peter tips forward into Eggsy’s arms.

Their chests meet, breaths momentarily knocked from their lungs, Eggsy with his arms around Peter’s shoulders and Peter with his around Eggsy’s waist, his face buried in the soft part of his neck. The knot ties Peter’s throat shut, but Eggsy, breath warm against Peter’s skin, says: “Never letting you go. Never.”

“I can’t lose you,” Peter mumbles into Eggsy’s shirt. “Not if it’s not on my terms.”

“Neither can I,” Eggsy says. “So don’t do this to me.” He pulls away, cupping Peter’s jaw with his hand, brows knitted with sincerity. Eggsy’s golden presence slips into Peter’s mind, cradling Peter’s blue in his own and vibrating softly, as if to comfort him. Peter exhales softly, and Eggsy says, “It’s you and me. I don’t want to go back to it just being me.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s barely audible. Peter’s gaze drops, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Eggsy—”

Eggsy silences him by tipping his body forward to kiss him.

It’s brief, but Peter’s eyes flutter shut and stay shut after Eggsy pulls away. Eggsy’s thumb brushes Peter’s face, and when Peter finally opens his eyes again, Eggsy looks pleased with himself. “You’re blushing.”

“You kissed me,” Peter defends.

“I don’t think I did,” Eggsy says, feigning confusion. He gently turns their bodies in the other direction, wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist as they walk.

“You did. You _definitely_ did.”

“No, not at all. You’re projecting.”

“You’re in my head. _You’re_ projecting.”

“I’ll tell you what I am— hungry.” Eggsy grins. “Want lunch?”

“In front of _Deadline_?”

“Of course. It’s tradition.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s _post-win_ tradition.”

“It counts,” Eggsy says. “I just won. I saved you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Peter takes Eggsy’s hand, thumb brushing his knuckles briefly. For now, the drift-memory is forgotten, and all he can think about is the warmth of the boy next to him, the gold that’s resting in his mind as if it’s the safest place in the world. “Yeah, you saved me.”

If he could remember only one color, Peter decides he would want it to be gold.


End file.
